


Bolthole

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Mycroft isn't himself... and may never be again.___________________A short epilogue to the brilliantA Dead Man in the Family.





	Bolthole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellis_Hendricks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Dead Man in the Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981884) by [Ellis_Hendricks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks). 



> I was privileged to beta read _A Dead Man in the Family_ as it was being written, and then Ellis_Hendricks gifted it to me on top of that! I couldn't resist writing this epilogue, as a little thank you for her. I do love Mycroft, even with all his faults.

 

He had been arguing with himself the entire way to her house, and the closer it came the more vehement was his inner conflict.

He really shouldn’t be doing this.

There was far too much to do, tired as he was. Arrangements to make. People to call.

The hour of leisure was not for him, nor the comfort of a sympathetic ear.  

There was, as biblical sources attested, no peace for the wicked.

Still, Sherlock had been… concerned. Uncharacteristically so, due to the stresses they had all undergone, and the weight of that particular moment. Poised on the brink, as it were.

Little brother was, without doubt, now safe in the arms of his beloved pathologist.

His beloved _friend_.

Mycroft’s disquiet eased a little, thinking of that. At least _something_ good would come of this torturous day.

And perhaps it was time to be done with lies. Well, as much as was feasibly possible.

He _had_ told Sherlock he’d had an offer from a friend.

_Maybe you’d like a drink some time._

On the surface it had seemed merely a flirtatious euphemism, but even then he knew it had been more than that.

Alicia was one of the few people he could trust. And she knew it.

He liked her. He liked her spirit. That sharp-eyed gaze that occasionally flamed -- or froze.

He liked her sense of humor, too, and he could say that about very few of his acquaintance. But her wit had just the right touch. And her smile, her warmth, her laughter… all contagious.

At least he had found them to be so.

The car was pulling over to the kerb. They had arrived, too quickly, and her house brooded in the light of a waning moon.

He should not be doing this.

But he got out of the car, and as he did so he noticed that his heart was beating just a trifle faster.

How absurd.

He turned to the driver. “You may go. I’ll call you when I need you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft turned back toward the house, though he made no move toward it, even after the car slid away, down the street.

Silence reigned, until beyond the small front garden, up the steps, in the shadows of the elegant portico, the front door of the house was heard to open.

He took a breath, then. Strode forward, slowing as he came closer. Light, faint but warm, streamed from behind her. She stood straight and slim on the threshold, and as he climbed the steps he caught the sheen of quilted satin, noted delicate embroidery on the high collar of her nightgown. From beneath the hem of it, neat velvet slippers peeped.

Her eyes glinted.

“I thought you might come,” she said, her voice tender.

He halted before her and straightened, peering down, but feeling oddly at a disadvantage in spite of his superior height. “You did mention a drink.”

“I did.”

He frowned. “You’ve not been to bed. You… waited up?”

She laughed a little, ruefully. “Yes, of course. The reports were quite disturbing. Is it all over?”

 _All._ The events of the last thirty-six hours came back to him in a rush, and the knowledge of what remained to do...

She was eyeing him narrowly.

He cleared his throat. “Those who still live are safe.”

“Sherlock?”

“I left him with Dr Hooper.”

She smiled. Reached out and, shockingly, took his hand. “Good,” she said. “Your mother will be pleased.”

He gave a sniff of wry amusement. “It’s that fact that will probably save me.”

She nodded, and squeezed the hand.

His other hand came up, seemingly of its own volition, and touched her cheek, the skin soft and cool against his fingertips. Then, somehow, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to draw her close, into his embrace.

The comfort of it was quite astonishing. The emotion evoked almost unmanned him for a moment.

He managed to pull himself together, however, and, eventually, released her.

They looked at each other. Mycroft feeling thoroughly bemused. Alisha with a knowing, yet gentle, smile.

“Come in and I’ll make you some tea,” she said to him, her voice husky.

Still wary of giving way to sentiment, he raised a brow and said, with an attempt at flippancy, “Is that a euphemism?”

And she laughed. “It could be,” she said, her eyes alight, “But… not tonight, I think?”

And Mycroft chuckled, too, wearily, but with a simple mirth he thought he’d outgrown long years ago. “Perhaps not,” he agreed, and followed as she led him inside, out of the cold.

 

~.~


End file.
